


A Fragment of Hope

by androgynope



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: 2d gorillaz, Abduction, Abuse, Gorillaz - Freeform, Implied Violence, Implied abuse, Mentions of alcohol, Murdoc Niccals - Freeform, Other, Paranoia, Phase 3, Stuart Pot - Freeform, Suicidal Ideation, Unhealthy Relationships, cyborg noodle - Freeform, mentions of abuse, plastic beach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgynope/pseuds/androgynope
Summary: Sedation, or, how 2D learned that certain tones render Murdoc completely useless.





	A Fragment of Hope

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Close_enough_to_lose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Close_enough_to_lose/gifts).



> hi nikita gave me an idea and i spent more time doing this that writing a paper for college, i didn't eben proofread. enjoy

Beaches were meant to be peaceful; places of tranquillity and relaxation, where lapping waves decorated beige coloured shores, and everyone was happy. As a child, he’d visited the beach every single summer, just the thought of it filled him with pure unadulterated delight. But now? The mere thought of the ocean filled Stuart Pot with dread. 

Month three. He wasn’t used to the quiet. Most nights were disturbed by the crashing waves on the hunk of plastic he was living on. Though living was a liberal way to put it, considering how often he dreamt of walking into the water until it filled him up and dragged him down, into murky polluted depths. The other sounds that filled the hallways were less natural; clanking footsteps of the cyborg paced back and forth for hours while he let exhaustion pull him into restless sleep, and he assumed she was a cause of the paranoia; the constant feeling of being watched, of being a prisoner forced into creating. He only sang now, because he was scared of what would happen if he shut his gob. He was so fucking scared.

The mornings were simple. Get up, brush his teeth, stare at the haggard reflection in the mirror and try to remember who he was. “I am Stuart. I am 2D. I am real, I will get home,” he repeated every morning into the mirror like a prayer, to try give him some kind of hope, but every day it seemed less and less likely that help was coming, that anyone cared about the lonely man on the sea, with his only companions being his captors. Stuart supposed that really was the root of his misery, his captors. But particularly the man that had operated this whole thing, the one that willingly put his little sister in harms way. Murdoc bloody Niccals.  
Now, if you had asked Stuart a year ago if he and Murdoc were friends, his enthusiastic answer of “Of course”, may have seemed unconvincing when paired with the way he flinched everytime the famed bassist walked into the room. So now? After pure torment and isolation for months on end, he would have happily hurled Murdoc into the ocean if he felt he had the strength. But he was weak, the diet of rum and saltines that he was on not really having much nutritional value (which surprised Murdoc tremendously, considering that was his general diet on, and off, the island). So, with that in mind, Stuart accepted his fate, and resigned himself to a life of creative misery; hiding from the Boogeyman, the cyborg, and sodding pirates, on the lump of litter that Murdoc had baptised as ‘Plastic Beach’.

He supposed, in some ways, it wasn’t all bad. He had his melodica, which he usually snuck out onto the shore to play, and sometimes, the Cyborg even sounded like the real Noodle, and for a few minutes, he could forget that he was grieving. So, he reminded himself, he still had things ti be grateful for. Why should he be miserable when he had those small luxuries? Some would beg to be in his position. Later on, when he explained these thoughts to his therapist, she’d tell him that he was allowed to be angry, and upset, and that what he had experienced was in no way alright. But he didn’t know that now. All he knew was that he was still breathing, and they were making an album, and that was enough to get him to the studio whenever Murdoc had the decency to stumble from his makeshift workshop, usually pickled from the mornings drink. Today was no different. The wafting scent of whiskey had hit Stuart as Murdoc shoved a barely decipherable sheet of lyrics into his chest before pushing him into the recording booth. Stuart slid on his headphones, and waited for his cue. Then he opened his mouth, and sang.

 

“Start over, you insufferable dunce. You keep messing up my incredible lyrics”,” Murdoc sneered after barely two minutes, making Stuart wince from the harsh hit of it on his eardrum through the headphones. They were recording today, finally. Even this felt like a little escape for Stuart. He nodded at Murdoc and waited for his cue to start singing again, the words floating out like the bags on the waves that had formed their shoreline, and for once, he felt okay. He could lose himself in the ideas of the words, that he could be a scary gargoyle, with immense non-degradable power, instead of the scrawny idiot he had been deemed by the man directing him. He let his eyes fall shut, as he allowed himself to get lost in he music, a smile pulling on his lips as he managed to escape the room for a few, glorious seconds. And then it started.

A screech echoed though Stuart’s headphones, so loud it caused his head to throb, and he threw them off with a clatter, eyes wide and chest heaving. It had startled him, the sharp tone suddenly drilling into his eardrums, and he had reacted instinctively, to escape from it. That was reasonable, wasn’t it? Anyone else would say so. Except Murdoc. Never Murdoc.  
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?!”, the bassist roared, not that Stuart could hear now that the headphones lay discarded on the shoddy carpeting. But he knew the way Murdoc’s mouth looked when he said that, because it wasn’t the first time. Fear started to course through him, the world almost in slow motion as he watched Murdoc rise up and make his way to the booth’s door, swinging it open and advancing with balled fists towards the terrified vocalist within. Murdoc smelled of sweat, and whiskey, so Stuart knew that he would be angrier than normal, and that he’d most likely feel the brunt of it for the next week or so, which made his blood turn cold. He hated this. He wanted to go home. He would rather spend his life working a fairground in fucking Crawley and give up every ounce of super-stardom if it meant an end to this torture. When Murdoc swung at him, clumsy and still drunk, Stuart managed to duck out under his arm and bolt out the booth, his breathing uneven and panicked as he felt the presence of his captor behind him. He tried to run for the main door, but a foot met his ankle, and sent him tumbling to the ground, a groan of pain escaping him as his body landed on the hard floor. He tried to get up, grabbing onto the desk in front of the recording booth to haul himself up, but Murdoc, who had fallen to his knees behind him in order to get close enough to surely knock another one of his teeth out, grabbed Stuart by the ankle and yanked, forcing him crashing down. But this time, instead of instantly curling up in anticipation of what was to inevitably come, he flailed his arms out, and his hand hit a button on the desk. One second, Stuart was turning his head to look at Murdoc, fear evident ion his blank eyes as the bassist raised a balled fist, ready to strike, and the next, as Stuart squeezed his eyes shut in preparation, nothing. 

Nothing happened. There was no pain, no anguish, and Stuart wondered if it was because his heart had decided to give out, and he was floating off to heaven, off to pet as many dogs as he liked and spit on pictures of Murdoc every single day.  
He expected to see nothing but bright, white light when he did open his eyes, but instead, he saw Murdoc; paralyzed. He’d fallen back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling blankly, and his anger had dissipated. He was as good as a rag doll, an ugly, old, horribly smelling one, but a rag doll none the less. The sound was still playing, a high pitched, almost futuristic one, and Stuart felt a bit like he was in an episode of Star Trek. It brought about that kind of feeling, for a reason he couldn’t pinpoint.

The vocalist slowly rose up and looked at the screen. “Theremin,” he murmured softly, an air of curiosity to his voice. Looking over to Murdoc, he hesitated before turning the volume down, watching as the man slowly blinked and sat up, rubbing his head beneath his overgrown, greasy fringe.  
“What the hell just happened, mate?” Murdoc asked, and it took Stuart a moment to realise he was serious. He couldn’t remember. Whatever that noise was, it had just saved the tortured man from another night trying to drink the physical pain away. So, he smiled, and helped Murdoc up, sitting him back down in his chair.  
“Oh no’fink. Y’just had a bit of an accident, is all. Maybe y’should give it a rest,” Stuart suggested to the still dazed man, who just nodded and got up, giving Stuart’s shoukder an almost gentle squeeze.

“Good work today, D,” he said simply, before leaving Stuart alone in the uneasy silence of the makeshift recording studio. Theremin. Stuart smiled as he rolled the world over his tongue. Ther-i-min. A way to stop Murdoc. For the first time in months, Stuart Pot had a reason to find hope. He finally had a way to keep himself safe. And for now? That was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> i've missed writing. please tell me your thoughts!! i'd like to erite some more but also improve. Have a good day!!


End file.
